


Best Behavior (Mr. Stilinski, Part Two)

by alisvolatpropiis



Series: Mr. Stilinski [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek, Come Eating, Comeplay, Consensual Underage Sex, Dirty Talk, High School Student Derek, M/M, Power Bottom Derek, Rimming, Slut Derek, Teacher Stiles, Teacher-Student Relationship, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He pulled on the hoodie, just to see if it smelled like Derek, which it did, like maybe he’d been wearing it a lot. Stiles pulled it up to his face, breathing in smoke and sweet-spice, closing his eyes, letting it fill his senses, getting hard again, always, at the thought of Derek, so beautiful and confident and hungry, at the thought of wrapping himself up in the boy forever so he can always smell this delicious warmth, real and fresh, lick it from his skin.</p><p>He’s got to stop this, this <em>want<em></em></em>.</p><p>He sighed, frustrated, shoving his hands hard into the pockets of the hoodie, feeling the soft crunch of paper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Behavior (Mr. Stilinski, Part Two)

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two! I've spent the last couple days working on this at the expense of pretty much everything else in my life because I can't get enough of cockslut Derek and weak-willed teacher Stiles. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Also, I (and Stiles) use the terms 'slut' and 'cockslut' with utmost respect and affection.
> 
> Derek is seventeen in this 'verse and by the laws of the state of California, is underage, but all sex is clearly consensual.
> 
> Also brief references to Derek having past relationships with Jackson, Parrish, and Cam Lahey, and Stiles with OMCs.
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you for continuing to be lovely, kind, inspiring readers!! Hugs to you all. XOXO.
> 
> (This is a much longer, more developed, infinitely smuttier version of this little [drabble/ask](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/post/100241117657/are-you-making-mr-stilinski-a-series-are-you-are))

Stiles stares at the small piece of a paper, a rectangle creased hard lengthwise down the middle, thin and soft between his fingers. The edges are a little worn from being in the pocket of his hoodie, curled on one side; he imagines Derek, hand in the pocket during class, fingering the corner of the rolling paper he had scrawled his phone number across, planning, scheming.

Stiles should tear the paper up, should reduce the blocky, aggressive string of numbers to a pile of scraps and then light them on fire for good measure, reduce them smoldering ash along with his need for the boy.

He pulls his phone from his pocket.

**~*~  
**

“You’ve got to stop,” Stiles had told him, arms crossed as he stood behind his desk, deliberate of course, trying to keep a barrier between them.

He didn’t trust himself. Not after last week at the bar when he gave in so easily to Derek’s seduction, to his own want.

And definitely not after spending the previous seventy-five minutes trying to teach _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ , while Derek stared at him, tapping the barbell of his tongue piercing against his lip.

He had been doing so well, these past seven days, not letting himself get too distracted by Derek, whose flirting remained but had tamed a bit, like he knew he didn’t have to work so hard anymore.

And so what if Stiles had jacked off more in the past week than he had since high school, always seeing Derek’s eyes looking up at him, remembering the hard press of his strong, young body, his velvety hot mouth.

But he had kept it together at school, never losing the rush of excitement that looking at Derek gives him, but getting used to it, adapting to always feeling a little unsettled during seventh period and in the hallways when he sees Derek leaning against the lockers, looking bored and unaffected.

Until this afternoon, when Derek, the little shit, sauntered into class a couple minutes after the bell, wearing Stiles’ worn and faded purple hoodie over a vintage Sex Pistols t-shirt so thrashed the hard lines of his taut abs were clearly visible, smirking as he fell into his seat.

It shouldn’t have affected Stiles the way it did, seeing Derek in his sweatshirt.

It shouldn’t have made him want him even more.

It shouldn’t have made him happy. 

And then Derek put the frayed white drawstring in his mouth, tip of his tongue twirling around it, a caricature of the way he tongued at the tip of Stiles’ cock.

Less than halfway through class he gave up trying to lecture and just put on the movie, sitting at his desk at the front of the room, pretending to grade papers while trying not to look up at Derek too often, thankful for the dark, gathering the courage to tersely ask Derek to stay after class when the final bell rang.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek had answered, stepping closer to his desk.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I just wanted to return your hoodie.”

“Derek.” He meant it to be a warning, but there was far too much affection in his voice. “What happened was a mistake,” he soldiered on. “It’s not going to happen again.”

“But you want it to happen again,” Derek had said, not teasing for once, simple and honest. “And so do I.”

He’s not sure how it happened after that, Derek falling to his knees again. One moment Stiles was stern, grappling desperately for the last vestiges of his professionalism, and then the next Derek was half under his desk, freeing him from his khakis, one hand reaching up to tug playfully on his tie.

A week of remembering how good Derek’s mouth felt still hadn’t prepared him for the return of it, for how soft and wet his tongue was, for the way he so sweetly slipped the barbell into his slit, eyes impossibly big prisms of blues and greens when he looked up at him, smiling.

**~*~**

“Have a good weekend, Mr. Stilinski,” Derek had smiled, dazzling with his peculiar, potent mix of smug sweetness, thumb brushing over the drip of come on his lower lip, other hand palming at the heavy bulge in his tight black jeans. He stood there like that, just for a moment, like he was letting Stiles memorize him, before shrugging off the hoodie and tossing it over Stiles’ desk, leaving him to put himself away and stare at his ass as he walked away. 

**~*~**

“You’re being an idiot. And Derek’s being ridiculous.” Lydia had said later, not long after Derek left, seeing right through his pitiful attempts to explain why she saw Derek Hale wearing that horrible hoodie she told him to burn.

He had looked through his fingers where he held his face in his hands, elbows on the desk, embarrassed that someone else finally knew the depths of his weakness, but relieved too, especially since Lydia didn’t judge him _too_ harshly. She did lecture him about fucking up Derek’s life and his own career, not to mention the fact that _his own father_ could be the one arresting him, and _Derek’s mother would be prosecuting him,_ if it came to that.

“But I understand,” she had added softly.

“You do,” he had asked, incredulous. “You’ve fooled around with a student?”

Lydia shook her head, giving him a small, knowing grin. “No. I mean understand where Derek’s coming from. It’s…exciting, having a crush on an attractive older man who you’re not supposed to want. Especially when he wants you back.”

Stiles had raised his eyebrows at her, trying to think of all the male teachers they had in high school, some of them, like Finstock, who were their colleagues now. “You slept with a teacher?”

Lydia’s answering smile was wide, devious, eyes bright. “Not a teacher.” She sat on the edge of his desk, leaning forward. “You remember Allison’s dad, don’t you?”

**~*~**

The knowledge of Lydia’s affair with Chris Argent during most of their senior year definitely gave Stiles something to think about for awhile that’s not Derek, replaying various high school memories with this new information, wondering if he should have noticed.

But it didn't distract him for too long, and after making dinner and eating standing in the kitchen, he found himself sitting on the couch, remembering how hard Derek’s cock had looked through his jeans, wondering if he went home and jacked off afterwards, still tasting Stiles’ come.

He pulled on the hoodie, just to see if it smelled like Derek, which it did, like maybe he’d been wearing it a lot. Stiles pulled it up to his face, breathing in smoke and sweet-spice, closing his eyes, letting it fill his senses, getting hard again, always, at the thought of Derek, so beautiful and confident and hungry, at the thought of wrapping himself up in the boy forever so he can always smell this delicious warmth, real and fresh, lick it from his skin.

He’s got to stop this, this _want_.

He sighed, frustrated, shoving his hands hard into the pockets of the hoodie, feeling the soft crunch of paper.

 **~*~**

He programs Derek’s number into his phone, saving it as _D_ , as if that could somehow protect either of them. He hasn’t decided what he’s going to say to him, knows that anything at all, even more attempts to tell him to stop, will only encourage him.

He startles, cursing, when the phone jumps in his hand, caller ID showing his dad’s cell. “Oh my god,” he mutters, running his hands through his hair trying to compose himself before answering.

“Hey dad, how’s it going,” he answers, wincing at how awkward and shaken he sounds.

“Stiles? This a bad time?”

“No, it’s fine. Everything’s good. What’s up, pops?”

“I’m calling to remind you about Thanksgiving next week.”

“Trust me, dad, you don’t need to remind a teacher about Thanksgiving. Four and a half blissful days of freedom.” 

His dad laughs. “I guess. It’s just been awhile since we’ve spent one together, wasn’t sure what the plan was this year with you being back and all.”

Stiles grimaces at everything unsaid in his dad’s careful choice of words. At how they stopped celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas in any real way after his mom died, neither one of them willing or able to pretend like her absence wasn’t a constant ache. Dad had taken to working extra shifts so the deputies with young kids could celebrate the holidays with them, Stiles either joining Lydia's family or playing videogames alone with pizza. For the last five years he’s spent the holidays with Lucas’ family in Denver, never even bothering to feel guilty about it until this moment.

“Well, I’m up for anything,” he says, working hard to be cheerful, suddenly wanting to make up for it all. “What did you have in mind?”

It seems to work, because his dad sounds relieved, enthusiastic even. “Good. We’ve been invited to dinner by one of my colleagues. I actually had Thanksgiving with her family last year, and it was great. She’s the district attorney, Talia Hale. She told me today that her son Derek is one of your students. I hope that doesn’t interfere too much with your ‘freedom from students’ plans,” he laughs, and to Stiles’ guilty mind it sounds menacing, even though he knows it’s not.

Stiles wants to laugh too, dark and bitter, because that’s better than the twist of anxiety he feels, the dawning horror that he’s going to have to go to Derek’s house, meet his parents, sit through a meal with him and his family and his dad, pretending like almost every waking (and dreaming) thought he’s had in the the past two months hasn’t been about how badly he wants to fuck him. 

“No, that won’t be a problem,” he manages to answer. “It sounds like a good time.”

**~*~**

He doesn’t text or call Derek, but he keeps his number in his phone.

~*~

On Monday Stiles is in his classroom during lunch, trying to get caught up on grading, when Derek walks in, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. The hallways are crowded and loud, so he knows Derek’s not here for another highly inadvisable blowjob, and Stiles knows he's totally lost it when that thought disappoints him.

“You’re coming over for Thanksgiving with your dad,” he says, almost a question, like he wants Stiles to confirm it, sitting on a desk in the front row like he’s taken to doing when he hangs around to talk.

“Yeah, your mom invited us. I hope that’s okay. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can convince my dad to – ”

“It’s fine,” Derek interrupts, calm cool breaking a bit, momentarily showing his eagerness. “I won’t be uncomfortable. I think it’ll be…fun,” he adds, grinning sweet and wicked.

“No. None of that, Derek. Not on Thursday, not in front of your parents and my dad, _the sheriff_ , for the love of god, _please_.”

Derek rolls his eyes, his whole head really, like he can’t even fathom how ridiculous Stiles is, which, _what the hell, asshole?_

“I’ll be on my best behavior, Mr. Stilinski.”  
~*~

“Careful,” Stiles warns his dad as he puts on his seatbelt, jostling the pink box holding the dark chocolate butter pecan pie Stiles paid a small fortune for at the fancy gourmet bakery in Hill Valley.

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives them to Derek’s house, extra careful to wait for his dad’s directions before taking the turns he remembers, feeling like a bundle of nerves, a livewire.

“Jeez,” his dad scoffs, finding the receipt for the pie. “She’s the district attorney, Stiles, not the Queen.”

**~*~**

The Hale house is even bigger than Stiles imagined it to be, their wealth not flashy, but clearly evident. 

And, equally disconcerting but not wholly unexpected, Derek’s dad, James, is _fucking hot_ , nearly six and a half feet of heavy muscle and a salt-and-pepper beard, and good lord, architects and dads are _not_ supposed to look like Greek gods. 

Talia’s brother, Derek’s uncle Peter, is also unsettlingly attractive, _and_ he gives Stiles a too-slow once over when they walk in, greeted enthusiastically by Talia and what looks to be a small herd of Labradors.

Stiles instantly regrets not taking the Xanax Lydia offered to give him.

**~*~**

The house is big, sprawling even, but comfortable and lived in, inviting. Talia gives his dad a hug and peck on the cheek, and then _whoa_ , there is she doing the same to Stiles, taking the pie from him with a smile and leaning in to hug him _again,_ this time in thanks. He forgets for a moment the ridiculous situation he’s in and the terrible choices he made because something about Talia, even though she’s imposing with her dark-eyed beauty and authoritative presence, radiates a warmth and comfort that reminds him so much of his own mother.

He’s grateful for the distraction of the arrival of Derek, walking casually down the stairs, immediately catching his gaze. That gratefulness doesn’t last though, because, as he was dreading, it turns out the presence of Derek’s parents and his own father does little to quell his attraction to him, does nothing to stop his heart from racing at how handsome he is, clearly dressed for company, probably at this mother’s insistence.

Derek’s freshly shaven, fully revealing the sharp line of his jaw that Stiles can still feel ghosting along the crease of his thigh, that full red mouth suckling. It makes him a little breathless, as does the snug fit of Derek’s burgundy sweater, his shoulders broad and square, mohawk shiny with moisture, like he just got out of the shower.

“Mr. Stilinski, Sheriff,” Derek says, walking over to shake their hands.

“Derek, happy Thanksgiving,” Stiles replies, wanting to scream at how awkward he feels, at how his chest does this hollowing, inside-out thing when he sees that Derek’s sweater has _thumbholes_ , for the love of god.

Another dark-haired beauty, a girl who looks to be a few years older than Derek, comes bounding down the stairs, her eyes the same otherworldly green as Derek’s, but more catlike and mysterious. She introduces herself as Laura, and Stiles remembers Derek telling him about her, his older sister studying at Stanford. There’s his younger sister too, Cora, a steely-eyed eighth grader so engrossed in her phone she barely looks up from her perch on the couch when James calls out her name to introduce her. 

“Stiles, you look a little overwhelmed,” James says, sympathetic, patting him on the back and drawing him towards the kitchen. “Let’s get you fixed up with a glass of wine.”

**~*~**

The wine – the most expensive Stiles has ever had, he’s sure – helps settle his nerves, as does insisting on helping James and Talia in the kitchen, even though they both keep saying that he should go watch the football game with his dad and Derek. He declines, says he prefers cooking, which he doesn’t really, but his strategy for the day is to stay as far away from Derek as he can in order to attempt to pretend like there’s absolutely nothing for him to feel awkward and guilty about.

Not a foolproof plan, of course, especially with the way Derek seems intent on sabotaging it, coming into the kitchen to get a soda, and then to ask when dinner’s going to be ready, and again to complain about Laura, and finally to swipe mashed potatoes from the bowl Stiles is holding, making sure his parents’ backs are turned before winking at him as he licks his finger clean.

**~*~**

“Stiles, last year your dad said you usually spend the holidays with your boyfriend,” Laura asks, pouring them both more wine.

They’re seated around the long dinner table in the dining room, Talia at the head, James at her right; somehow Stiles ended up at the far end, directly across from Derek, which he’s pretty sure has something to do with Derek volunteering to help Cora set the table. 

Derek doesn't look up at him at Laura’s question, but Stiles can’t miss the way his shoulders tense, the way his hand tightens around his fork.

“Used to,” he answers her, nodding his thanks for the wine. “We broke up when I moved back here.” There’s a murmur of sympathy from Talia and James, and a sound that sounds suspiciously like interest from weird uncle Peter.

“Sorry,” Laura winces.

“It’s fine, really. Was for the best,” he adds, Derek finally looking up, eyes unreadable. Stiles smiles at Laura, trying to reassure her.

“Have you had any luck finding a new beau since you’ve been back,” Peter asks, sipping at his wine, eyes wide in mock innocence.

 _This has got to be karma_ , Stiles thinks, cheeks burning.

“Peter,” Talia warns. “Leave Mr. Stilinski alone.”

Derek’s laughter erupts through the room, loud and surprisingly high-pitched, practically a giggle. _A fucking giggle_. “Sorry,” he says, realizing everyone’s eyes are on him. He snorts back another guffaw, taking a drink from his soda, still grinning, eyes locked on Stiles’.

“Peter,” Laura admonishes her uncle. “You’re making Derek weird by flirting with his teacher. Stop it.”

“My apologies to you both,” Peter coos, clearly not apologetic at all.

**~*~**

“Derek, whatever happened with you and Cam Lahey,” Laura asks quietly when their parents and his dad and Peter fall into a conversation about city council gossip.

Stiles feels his own shoulders tense, takes another long swallow of wine, tries to act like he’s not terribly, desperately interested in listening to Derek and Laura's hushed conversation.

“What do you mean,” Derek asks, eyes darting over to Stiles before looking at his older sister, clearly not wanting to talk about it.

“Nice try, dummy,” she scolds between bites of turkey. “I know him, remember? I saw all of those Facebook pics of you two. And the fucking love sonnets he wrote to your ass,” she shudders, gulping her own wine.

Stiles focuses very, very hard on his green bean casserole, trying not to imagine what Isaac Lahey’s older brother, who he heard was a Marine, looks like, or how familiar he might be with Derek’s ass.

“It was just a casual thing,” Derek shrugs.

“It seemed more than causal to him,” Laura prods, poking his arm with her fork, getting gravy on his sweater.

“Yeah, so, that’s why we’re not seeing each other any more.”

“You’re such a heartbreaker, baby bro. Do you know how many dudes have come crying to me about you?”

“Laura. Come on.”

“I’m serious. It’s getting old. At some point, after you’ve fucked every guy in town, you’ve got to take responsibility for the hearts you break.”

Stiles chokes on his turkey, and goddammit, his wineglass his empty again. He watches Derek level his sister with a piercing glare, a little scared at how terrifying he looks.

Laura though, clearly used to it, just raises her eyebrows at him, a further challenge.

“You’re just jealous because you didn’t get laid until college,” Derek smirks, pointedly not looking Stiles’ way.

“Asshole,” she mutters, punching in him the arm, reaching for the wine bottle.

**~*~  
**

After dinner, when they’re helping clear the table, Derek invites Stiles to see the family library he’s told him so much about, and no one bats an eye when Derek leads him upstairs.

The library is beautiful, the one wall not lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made of all windows that let in the gray, early evening light. The shelves themselves are breathtaking for their size and fullness, many of them filled with what look to be heavy legal tomes, but not as many as Stiles was expecting.

His jittery nerves at being alone with Derek soon give way to his ever-overpowering curiosity and love of books, and he quickly makes his way to the shelf nearest the windows, scanning the titles. Derek follows him, crossing his unfairly muscled arms and leaning his shoulder against the shelf, watching him, face blank and unreadable. His eyes, a gold-flecked blue-green today, narrow more and more as Stiles remains silent, continuing his perusal. Derek clearly has something he wants to say, so he’s just going to give him the time to say it, no matter how badly he wants to ask.

“I haven’t fucked every guy in town,” he says finally, trying too hard to sound unaffected. His voice is quiet, but that could be just because he doesn’t want to be overheard, even tough the house is huge and everyone else is downstairs.

“I didn’t think you did,” Stiles says, also quiet.

“I’m not a virgin though, not by a long shot.” Derek moves closer, hips first, brushing up against his side. "I like sex, and I'm not ashamed of that."

"You shouldn't be," Stiles breathes, thinks he should step away from him, feels proud of himself for simply not leaning harder into his sturdy body. 

"I'm smart about it, safe," he goes on, quiet and even. "Usually, that is. You're the first guy I've ever sucked without a condom, the first guy I've ever let come in my mouth."

“Derek,” Stiles warns, or maybe pleads. He’s not sure anymore. Derek _confuses_ him.

“Stiles,” he whispers, grinning when Stiles jerks his head toward him, eyes going big in surprise that Derek’s finally calling him by his first name. It twists at his chest in a new, even more curious way. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Derek, _please_.” He’s definitely pleading now, but he’s pretty sure it's not for him to stop, judging by the way he leans into his hips.

Derek answers by leaning all the way in, arms dropping to circle around Stiles’ waist, nuzzling his face into neck. It’s so intimate Stiles loses his breath, shuddering. Derek’s mouth is hot and wet behind his ear, an open-mouthed kiss, the blunt edge of his teeth finding his earlobe, nibbling. “I know you want to fuck me,” he asks again, more insistent. “I know you do. I know you want to fuck me open and fill me up with your come.”

He closes his eyes. “It’s…it’s not about what I want, Derek,” he chokes out, unable to move away from him.

Derek rolls his hips and notches the rigid line of his erection into the groove of Stiles’ hip. “What about what _I_ want,” he purrs, breathy and hot.

_How is he so good at this?_

“It’s not about _want_ ,” he tells him, pulling a way a bit, steadying himself against the powerful waves of lust by reminding himself that his father and Derek’s parents are downstairs, could walk in on them at any moment. Hell, they’ve been so wrapped up in each other these past minutes the whole family could have marched in without them noticing.

Derek doesn’t just confuse him.

Derek makes him stupid. “You’re seventeen,” he says, sounding harsher than he means to.

“That didn’t seem to be a problem the other night when I had your dick in my mouth. Or last week at school, _also_ when I had your dick in my mouth.” 

God, he’s an asshole. A cocky, utterly-gorgeous-and-fucking-knows-it, smart, smug asshole that Stiles wants to hug, wants to cuddle the living hell out of and cook breakfast for after spending the entire night fucking him into his mattress, spearing him on his cock until he’s panting, whimpering, whining, coming untouched and begging for more.

“That was a mistake,” he stutters, wholly unconvincing. “You’re seventeen,” he repeats. “I’m fifteen years older than you. You’re underage.” The word makes him feel dirty, which is why he says it. He needs to be jolted out of this, needs to be brought to his senses, needs to break the spell Derek has over him for both their sakes.

Derek scoffs. “And so in a month when I turn eighteen, I’ll magically have some ability to consent that I don’t have right now? That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Arbitrary as the law may be, it’s still the law, Derek. And even when you’re eighteen, this can’t happen. I’m your teacher.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Stiles. I don’t want you to lose your job any more than you do.”

“Derek, it’s not about me losing my job. It’s about…power. I’m in a position of authority over you.” He sounds stern, his voice steady if not with conviction, at least with resigned acceptance of their situation. He rolls his shoulders as he speaks, straightening his posture and shifting away from the hot press of Derek’s hard body against his side.

He can do this. He’s the adult here. He’s more than his hormones, more than his emotions.

He can say no to this beautiful boy who’s looking at him right now like he’s the most marvelous thing he’s ever seen, eyes twinkling, smile bright, laughter low and secret. “What?” Stiles asks, exasperated. “Why are you laughing?”

“It’s funny,” Derek whispers, pushing Stiles against the shelf, pressing full up against him now, angling his hips to rub their cocks together, his stunning smile growing even wider when he feels how hard Stiles is. “That you think you have authority over me.”

Stiles wordlessly stumbles for a retort, Derek’s absurd eyebrows arching higher and higher in adorable bemusement as he watches him sputter and fluster, unable to argue with him.

Laura’s voice echoes up the stairs. “Derek! Mom says it’s time for pie!” 

It startles Stiles, but not Derek, who’s still hard and insistent against him, not moving. 

“Okay,” he calls out to her finally, eyes still locked on Stiles’.

He leans in and plants a soft, tender kiss on his mouth, sweetness belying his wanton teasing, another facet of the endlessly contradictory and utterly intoxicating Derek Hale. “Come on, Mr. Stilinski. It’s time for pie.”

~*~

After dessert, Derek disappears upstairs and returns with a backpack, punching Laura in the shoulder before leaning over the back of the couch to plant a short kiss on the top of his mom’s head. “Awesome dinner,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Take Erica and her mom some leftovers,” Talia says, rising and walking to the kitchen. Stiles looks up from his game of cards with Cora, not letting his gaze settle too long on Derek’s small smile.

“Movie night at Erica’s,” Derek explains, telling Stiles everything he needs to know with the lift of his ridiculous eyebrows, whispering low to him, taking advantage of Cora’s immersion back in her phone. “You have my number.”

~*~

**Are you sure?**

It’s the first text he ever sends Derek, still slightly panting after coming onto his stomach, curled over himself on the couch, burning up at the memory of Derek’s mouth on his neck, of how he asked to be fucked, filled up.

 **I’m sure** , Derek replies immediately.

Stiles answers with his address.

**~*~**

Half an hour later, Derek’s in his house, peeling off his jacket and throwing it over the back of the couch, big eyes taking in his cluttered living room, grinning when he sees the hastily wiped-up come on Stiles’ bare stomach. “Got started without me?” He smirks, pulling off his shirt, reaching for the waistband of the baggy, low-slung sweats Stiles is wearing.

Stiles leans into his touch, buries his face in his neck, mouths at his skin, feels his own skin flutter and flex at every point of contact.

“I would have gotten here sooner,” Derek murmurs into his hair. “But I parked a few blocks away and walked.”

It hadn’t even occurred to Stiles to suggest such a thing, but it’s smart, and he’s glad Derek thought of it. The last thing he needs is for Derek’s flashy Camaro to be recognized in his driveway.

His relief is quickly tainted by the realization that Derek is obviously very good at sneaking around, the kind of good that comes with practice, with experience. Stiles pulls him into a bruising kiss, surprised by his own jealousy, abstract and confusing as it is.

“Who does Erica think you’re with?” He pushes Derek out of the living room, towards the stairs, desperate to get him in his bed. He’s finally got this boy where he wants him, can finally take his time, can finally strip him bare and take him apart, wreck and ruin him, make him feel the ways Stiles feels every goddamn day under the open heat of his unyielding, relentless gaze.

“Jackson,” Derek answers, breathless. Stiles groans into Derek’s collarbone, far more irritated than he should be at the thought of Derek with that too-pretty, smarmy shithead Jackson Whittemore.

“Are you still fucking him,” he asks, sharp, angrier than he intends. It occurs to Stiles then, along with this new possessive lust that’s burning him up, hands making easy work of Derek’s zipper, that he hasn’t tasted his cock yet, hasn’t seen how gorgeous he’s got to be when he’s getting sucked off.

“Why, you jealous?” Derek snaps back, helping Stiles get his jeans off, kicking them into a tangled pile at the bottom of the stairs. His voice rises oddly at the end with something like hope.

Derek’s naked now, pretty young cock heavy and flushed, eyes locked on his, an invitation, a challenge, a beckoning. Stiles wants to fuck the memory of every man’s touch from his body, wants to make him forget every orgasm he’s ever had at the hands or mouth or cock of someone else, wants to fill Derek’s body and mind up with _him_.

He can’t seem to lie to the boy, so he doesn’t answer his question, just yanks him into another punishing kiss before giving his chest a shove, pushing him back until he falls to sit on a stair about halfway up.

Derek smiles and goes pliant under his touch, lets Stiles push him until he’s lying back against the stairs, legs spread wide, exposed. Derek’s hands go up to rest behind his head, relaxed, cocky, grinning again.

“Come and get it, Mr. Stilinski.”

**~*~**

Stiles was right. 

Derek is a _fucking vision_ when he’s getting sucked off.

**~*~**

Stiles basks in the swell of pride he feels when Derek, breathless and gasping, empties heavily across his chest just as he lets him slide out of his mouth, at the way Derek’s nubile body curves toward him, abs flexing, hands tugging at Stiles’ hair.

Derek’s still panting when Stiles dips back down the steps to mouth at his balls, suckling gently until the boy keens. Stiles pulls back, rubbing his cheek along his muscular thighs dusted with soft, dark hair. He’s struck again by the quiet strength coiled hard in his body, by the promise of power and bulk it contains, is filled momentarily with the wistful desire to stay with him as long as he can, to be there when he finishes growing into the astoundingly beautiful man he’s going to become.

Stiles pushes that absurd thought away as he crawls up the stairs, up Derek’s quivering body, hovering over him, caging him in, kissing him, pulling his tongue piercing between his teeth, swollen cock still in his sweats, rubbing hard into the groove of Derek’s thigh.

Derek groans and shifts down a bit, enough to take one of Stiles’ hard, sensitive nipples in his mouth, flicking steel against the tip before licking over into the hair between his pecs, gathering up some of his still-hot come.

Now Stiles moans, can’t help it when Derek looks back up at him, mouth open, white mess of his own come a sticky puddle on his tongue. When he kisses him, it's bittersweet, amplifying the overwhelming taste of _Derek_ still in his mouth from sucking him, filthy mess of spit and spunk webbing their tangling tongues, sloppy, perfect. 

**~*~**

“Has anyone ever done this for you,” Stiles breathes, groaning softly at how Derek’s soft, pink hole flutters reflexively at the brush of air from his lips, saliva flooding his mouth in anticipation of tasting him here, of feeling that tight rim loosen and clench around his tongue.

“No,” Derek whines, pleading, last traces of his cool façade fading about the time Stiles pushed him down to hands and knees in the middle of his unmade bed and ordered him to crawl up, to hold on to the headboard, to keep his legs spread wide.

Stiles is naked now too, cock starting to throb, but he’s patient, intent on completely undoing him, on testing the limits of his teenage stamina, wants to see if he can make him come twice before he even gets his dick in his pretty, pretty hole and show him what it is to truly be fucked.

Stiles likes the look of his hands across Derek’s round, pert ass, spreading him wide. He’s soft with hair here too, delicate little curls twirling around his entrance, hypnotizing. “You want me to,” he asks, teasing his rim with the feather-light tip of his finger, smiling when Derek hisses through his teeth. “Want me to lick you open before I fuck you? Want me eat your perfect ass?”

Derek just nods, hands tight on the rails of the headboard, gasping hard. Stiles runs his hands up his back, soothing, moving up to lean over his back, pressing his chest, still sticky with Derek’s come, into his hot skin. He nuzzles his neck, gentle, tender kisses behind his ear. “I’ve got you, baby," he whispers. "I’m going to take such good care of you.” Derek nods again, reaches a hand back to clasp around Stiles’ neck, pulling him closer.

Stiles doesn't tease any more when he moves back down the long, erotic expanse of Derek’s flawless back, spreading him open again to lick wide and wet from his balls on up, spinning the tip of his tongue into the swirl of hair before using it to coax him open, sliding deeper and deeper still as Derek’s body gives way easily.

Derek makes the prettiest noises as he falls apart, rocking his hips back, demanding more, which Stiles happily gives. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to pleasure someone this way, even longer still since it’s been done to him, but he remembers vividly, remembers what feels good.

Soon he’s tonguing into him as hard and fast as he can, reaching between his shaking legs to give his straining cock a few exploratory strokes, teasing his foreskin, slicking up a finger with his syrupy precome before slipping it into him alongside his tongue. Derek takes his finger beautifully, the dense tight heat of him so welcoming and soft Stiles pulls his tongue out so he can slip in another.

Derek arches and moans, greedy. “Fuck me,” he whines, panting and desperate. “God, Stiles, please, fuck me, fuck me.” 

“Not yet, baby, not yet. You’re going to come for me again,” he whispers, pulling his fingers from him to reach over to and get lube from the nightstand. He rubs a generous drizzle between his fingers to warm it before slipping them back in, easing all the way to the last knuckle. Derek whines and shoves back hard, still seeking more, each eager twitch of his hips and hole undoing Stiles bit by bit, entranced by how badly Derek seems to want, to _need_ to be fucked. He adds more lube and another finger, curving just so to find the sweet spot, pressing down harder when Derek rocks his hips back hard, crying out as he shoots powerful and thick all over the pillows beneath him, hands white-knuckled around the rails of the headboard. 

Derek’s still shaking, trying to catch his breath, when Stiles pushes into him without warning, drinking up the surprised yelping groan of pleasure he makes, groaning himself at how Derek’s ass swallows his cock just as easily as his mouth does. He leans over him, wraps his hands around Derek’s on the headboard and begins to thrust steadily, biting at his sweaty mohawk, drowning in the impossibly tight, slick squeeze of him. “Is this what you wanted,” he huffs into his ear, picking up the pace, drunk on how good he feels, on good how Derek feels beneath him, taking him so good and sweet. “Begging to be fucked…is this what you wanted, Derek, baby? Wanted my cock in your ass, wanted me to make you mine?”

“Yes,” Derek grunts, nodding, smiling when Stiles pulls him back by the hair, twisting his neck back to kiss him, hard and filthy, before pushing him away with a playful shove.

“Show me,” Stiles orders, stilling his hips, pulling all the way out, croaking out a tortured-sounding gasp when he sees the way Derek’s ass flutters and quivers at the emptiness. “Show me how much you want my cock.” He leans back, resting the backs of this thighs on his heels, angry red dick rigid and slick, waiting for Derek to take him back in.

Derek slides back, falling forward to rest on his elbows as he positions himself, shoving himself onto Stiles’ dick with an eager, confident thrust, hips starting to roll in sinuous, wicked waves as soon as Stiles is nestled tight inside of him again. “Oh fuck, Der,” he whines, control slipping while he watches Derek slide himself back and forth on his cock, clenching, hips rolling. Stiles drops his hands, clasping them tightly around Derek’s ankles where they’re bracketing each of this thighs, ass bouncing as he fucks himself harder, faster. “That’s it,” he encourages, voice low and thick. “Take what you need, my sweet little cockslut.”

And Derek _does_. Stiles has never been with anyone so enthusiastic to be fucked, so shameless and needy, each graceful roll and thrust more urgent than the last, his need and love for it open and raw as he takes and takes, Stiles’ name a broken moan on his lips the whole time.

Eventually Stiles can’t take it anymore, it’s too much beauty, too perfect, too much everything threatening to burn them both up. He stills Derek with the firm clasp of his hands on his hips, taking back control, pushing him down so he’s flat on his stomach, his hips still thrusting, mindlessly pursuing his pleasure.

Stiles' hands dig red, bruising shapes on Derek’s shoulders when he comes, pushing him down, hips snapping hard and fast, coming with an explosive, aching groan, spilling deep inside of him, gasping, lost in him, in them, collapsing bodily on top of him, still buried in that tight wet heat, Derek dribbling more come into the sheets beneath him, both of them trembling and weak.

**~*~**

Stiles wakes to Derek straddling his thighs, coaxing his half-hard cock with slick hands, eyes big and dark in the pale, moonlit room. “You awake,” he asks, tugging, hands more insistent.

“I am now, baby,” Stiles mumbles, mind slow and body dense, smiling up at him through sleepy eyes, cock filling quickly, growing hot and fat in Derek’s greedy hands. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, awed, hands circling his hips, helping him sink down.

Derek accepts him smoothly, seating himself on Stiles’ cock like he was made for it, sighing happily when he bottoms out. He doesn’t move for a long time, seems perfectly content to just stay still, rooted to him, hands trailing softly up and down Stiles’ torso, exploratory and gentle. When he does finally move it’s to lean over and kiss him, slow and dreamy, hands reaching up to cup his face.

Stiles has to close his eyes against the rush of affection, so strong it threatens to overwhelm him, make him say or do something stupid like ask him to stay forever.

Derek starts to roll his hips, slow, long undulations, tongue still sweet and soft against his, languid, passionate. Stiles wraps his arms around his back, pulling him in closer, holding on tight, resisting the urge to push up into him.

He starts to move faster, hips twitching in shorter bursts, breaking the kiss to bury his face in Stiles’ neck. “Stiles,” he whines into his ear, muffled and broken, like he’s overwhelmed too.

“Derek, I’ve got you,” he chokes out, breath coming hard and fast. He runs his hands down his back to clutch at his ass, fingertips pressing gently on his rim, stretched full and slick with lube, gasping when Derek sits up abruptly, eyes hazy and wild.

Stiles watches, stunned, awed, as Derek throws his head back and starts riding him fast, giving in completely to his need, chest growing pink and shiny with exertion, cock flushed and hard, bouncing and leaking. Stiles wraps a hand around him, wants to give him something to fuck into while he’s fucking himself so spectacularly. Derek nudges his hand away though, smiling down at him. “No,” he pants, not breaking his rhythm, “just your cock, just want your cock.”

And that, _that_ , Derek whining about coming untouched, is what does Stiles in, makes him thrust up and cry out, emptying himself inside the boy again, flames of bursting heat cascading through him, exhausting.

Derek is smiling, blissed out, grinding down harder, faster, pressing his thumbs into the bony knobs of Stiles’ hips. “You feel that,” he asks, narrowing his gaze on him. “Feel your come sliding out of me, Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles nods, eyes fluttering back, basking in the hot drip sliding down his shaft down to his balls, slick and sloppy with the sound of Derek’s relentless fucking. Derek shudders and moans when he comes, shooting powerfully, thick ribbons painting Stiles’ chest and face; he reaches up to run his thumb across his mouth, smirking down at him.

**~*~**

In the shower, Derek leans his head against the tile while Stiles kneels behind him, steam billowing, licking him clean with a gentle, tender tongue before washing him properly.

When they fall back into bed, naked and still damp, Derek scoots close and rests his head on Stiles’ chest, just over his heart, fitting under the crook of his arm just right, like he belongs there.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [deleted-scenes](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come hang out for update info, drabbles, reblogs, fic recs, random ramblings, and a lot of emotions about fictional characters.


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